beyond the barricade
by fezzesandbowtiesarecool
Summary: contemplation leads to strict confession. e/r I am a fake & a fraud & I have not read Les Miserables; I have only just started. I am sorry for the inaccuracies you may find in here.


The simplemindedness of the extravaganza had not struck him till he was caught in the crossfire of two brutish men. The whole idea of going to a bar that he was not familiar with was large enough as it was. He was not the type to thirst a drink, in any case, and nor was he particularly interested in people, either. One could never assume safety where one had never been, or with people never known. All the others at ABC had been so adamant to find a place where there was worthy wine for the night. It was a celebration, they said, of_ la Republique._ It was a celebration of Lamarque. An easy way to seduce the revolutionary, the journey was made without much fuss.

Enjolras held himself by his forehead, shaking his head for his mistake as the men spat out from dirty black teeth with wild eyes and breathless anger. It was decidedly stupid to try to interfere, but he had put a hand between them anyway, asking them to settle down. The lady they fought for sat away in the corner, anyway. She was tucked away in her teal dress, fingering the buttons of another man's overcoat. Yet, with a glass of wine in front of him, and his papers tucked securely to his trousers, the men had forged their fight in Enjolras' own fire; brutes, even on opposing sides, are brutes together, and are liable to find another fight in which both may vent out their anger. It seemed they found a common cause in the blonde at the table.

His friends were in their own corner, drinking their own bottles and laughing – at _la Republique, _Enjolras, themselves. All of them knew the barricade was soon to rise and that, somewhere deep down, they were soon to die. It was those few hours before the day that determined it all which allowed for laughter and spite. Stoicism was for the day itself, the fight itself, and the Death. Enjolras knew this well, having pondered the consequences of his plan many times. This was where his specificity in members stemmed from... a man who was not ready to bare his life for a cause was not worthy to work for it at all. Here, Enjolras was an aspirational man; he would do anything for his mother France. But his philosophy remained all or nothing. You could move on in life without bother or devote yourself wholly, soul and heart and everything attached.

There is no such thing as a perfect soul. A perfect soul is grey clay & matter, rectangular yet shapeless and botched yet smooth and untouched and finger-printed. It is cold and empty and nothing is there... if it is perfect. The soul which has been shaped, painted, twisted, marked, and burnt is the soul which is imperfect – and its forms are such beautiful masterpieces as to make gods. Enjolras was skillfully made; he, the masterpiece itself, knew how to present to the World in fireworks. This is a talent many lack.

It was not difficult to admire the man, but it was difficult to love him.

_Les Amis de l'ABC _admired Enjolras. Perhaps, somehow, they even loved him as their own friend or brother. Ladies tightened their legs at the sight of him or blushed or felt their stomach clench, but there was only a dirty fuzz in their eyes while they did so. They had not been cleared out by any love for him. Nothing about him shattered their world and nothing about him ever would. Even his Revolution, it seemed, was not enough to break a hold onto their shining lives.

It is always interesting to see how those who are truly light are never absolutely able to function around other lights or that which sparkles or reflects. There is only ever a glare. Light is meant for the dark, predestined to shine out those caves and trenches which need them most. People find it unbefitting for an angel to journey to the sewers, but what use has it in a clean and pure land? No life has proper use if it is kept where it cannot improve.

Enjolras knew this well. He knew his place, in the darkest and dirtiest hovel of his beloved country. Somehow that contrast made him all the more beautiful. Thus, as it came, Enjolras became untouchable. He only went to what needed him and ignored all the rest which was well on its own. Unhelpful gem, indifferent angel, clockwork god. He was spoken of in such ironic flattery.

This is why it seemed so funny to those who knew the man that a couple of scruffs of the street would even attempt to fight him. They threw degenerate words at him, all their teeth jagged from years of gnawing. 'Who da ya think you are, pretty boy?'

He had the grace not to answer. His mind was elsewhere and he cared little if not at all for the trifles of romance that convoluted the civility of these men, nor of the drink he did not pay for, or of the dependence his friends laid upon him to stay by their side that night and keep watch on them so they could laugh without worry. It is something to prepare for a plan with the Planner, and another entirely to prepare with the Planner absent. Even if the plan is known, it disappears & crumbles.

_Les amis _fidgeted a few moments past Enjolras' departure. They had called out after him, their drinks toppling over the sides as they threw their arms wide open in apparent dismay. He had left with his cheeks sucked in and eyes dark below him. There was a darkness upon him, one which each of the men knew he faced alone till tomorrow.

The Revolution was not all that sat on the soft and able cortex of the dear leader. All or nothing did not mean one-track, necessarily. He had the capability for many things, many events, many people. Yes, he pressed himself up against the calamity that was to come, grabbed onto the predictions, the likelihoods, and outcomes as if they stood before him, walking into the battlefield as he walked down the rue, stepped over a brother's body as he skipped a dislodged brick, and wept over a broken flag as he saw it flying in the window of an apartment blocks above.

Yet he also felt a light hand brush his. Warmth crept up his arm even in the empty cool night. He pressed his eyes shut in a pause before his door. He placed the hand to a face, then the face to what would come. What he saw was the brown face of a dirty drunkard, a bottle in one hand and a gun in the next. Dead on the ground, lukewarm and draining. He shook his head minutely and nearly laughed (if Enjolras ever did laugh), knowing very well that Grantaire was not the type to hold a gun and nor ever for another's sake.

Still he wondered why the drunk laid about his Revolution like a lame duck. He could think of earlier, the man nearly begging to prove and work for an idea he did not believe in. He struggled to comprehend. There was a pit in his stomach, which made him feel ill so often thinking of the awful and distasteful waste Grantaire was to the world and to France. Only Grantaire, ashen and ugly boy, knew Enjolras was no indifferent angel. Hatred steamed from this pit only to the other man, dislike and dread. It seemed the dirt could not get enough of the warmth, could not stop moving closer. He was stuck in orbit.

The stairs creaked as Enjolras made his way to his measly and tiny box of a room, a desk on one side with too many papers to tell how many meant anything, a bed on another, and small but view-bearing balcony last. He wandered back to Grantaire. There was a peace now of his Revolution. There was nothing more to contemplate. Everything was just to be done.

The bastard irritated him even in his peace.

A heavy sigh escaped him as the air of his blankets blew out beneath his weight. The void of the cold night attacked the sound to silence in seconds, enveloping the man entirely. Beneath his eyelids, from the black, was the faint face of his Pylades.

He shook his head lightly, but the visage remained broken upon his skin.

His head ached, vexed. A pushing throb, he could hear the consistent _thlunk... thlunk... thlunk. _The most frustrating thing was that once he stopped fighting this image he felt calm, almost, and slightly comforted. However, that steaming, carbonated anger flicked violently and told him to avoid, stop, confront, attack. It was a pointless battle, where that which was fought against did not fight back. It was fruitless and angering, but that rotten pit kept regurgitating its disapproval.

Ill and aching, Enjolras laid with his arms over his closed eyes, fully clothed, still, to the boot, and restless. He twitched often, but the movements were weighty, as if they had been dropped into the very River Styx and he were weighed down by a promise.

The sky outside was covered in black clouds. The streets were empty and the lamp light dripped in fog. Enjolras laid there for a few moments, struggling in his redundancy to empty his ears of their void rumblings. As he continued on and nothing came to, he stretched abruptly from the bed.

He strode, long and firm, to the balcony and swung open the door, his eyes contemplative beside a hawk nose and beneath sloping eyebrows. He pursed his lips as he leant out his balcony, beginning the confrontation of his dreams. What was it about Grantaire that allowed him passage to his inner chambers? It is one thing to be in one's bedroom, and another entirely to be in their minds while they slept. This surely must be a trespasser, but he could not deny that his mind itself had allowed the entrance.

Why would he ever want to be visited by Grantaire?

In many ways, this was very unlike Enjolras. He was normally oblivious to anything on an emotional level unless it affected his politics. This can be acknowledged without hindrance. It must be explained, then, that this restlessness sprung from a completion. He had to face what he had brought forth. It was either thoughts of death & destruction or of Grantaire. Although it might've been debatable at one point, Enjolras found he preferred Grantaire.

However, what was most alarming in it all was that Grantaire was not a mere better choice over death. It seemed no matter how he tried, bloodshed and bullets appeared ceaselessly. It was only when he felt Grantaire's hand upon his or arm around his back that he felt truly able to bear the onus of his choices. When had this haggard man been a positive influence? There was nothing in him that could even remotely be viewed as 'positive,' wasn't it so?

He hated that he was questioning himself, especially at a time like this.

The irritation grew. He needed to know; _why_ did he feel this way?

The floor clanged a metallic shudder. A pebble stared blankly into the man's conflicted sight, slightly drunk from anticipation and joy & yet complete despair. Another pebble cluttered to his toes. He looked down.

'Oh, mine Apollo!' a voice slurred out below.

There was a shake and a grimace, interrupted by yet another clank.

The man shuffled below. He mumbled for awhile; next, a cough, stumble, and groan.

'Open the door, would you?' he at last called out. His voice sounded full and deep as he yawned out, 'I'm wasted.'

'I can tell,' Enjolras said partly to himself, a little too proud to shout out, but not mighty enough to leave the comment unattended. He stood there, smiling a slim but fond smile and inwardly berating himself that it was there upon his own lips, performed by his own voluntary muscles. Yet he could not stop himself to do otherwise as he thought of Grantaire drunk off his ass at his door, waiting to make clever remarks against his Revolution - and to make quiet assumptions about a world he no longer knew by his steady flow of absinthe.

Enjolras shook his head.

Grantaire could be heard on both ends now, thumping an echo through the hallway and up the stairs and growling out threats from right below, crisp in the air. 'Oh, open up!' he cried, impatient.

At last, the knocks stopped as he called out, 'Must I make an offering?' There was some more grumbling, then some suspicious scratching. 'Is it bread you crave, my god? There are some crumbs left in this pocket...'

It took a moment to catch on, but with equal amounts amusement and horror, Enjolras recognised Grantaire's plan. As an ancient Greek would to his god, he would burn an offering to the heavens. Good God, was he scratching flint against his door?

'Grantaire,' he announced with an edge. 'Stop vandalising my door.'

'You don't want my offering?'  
'I do not.'

There was a pause. A wacky grin was upon Grantaire's face that the other man could not see. 'Are you sure you don't want to get it from my pocket yourself?'

Enjolras was lost to the meaning. 'Stop your ruckus; I am coming down.'

'You are drunk,' he said immediately upon opening the door. He saw his friend's black hair sprawled across the brick of his apartment, clutching a brown bottle to his breast. The man looked up with large brown eyes and wet lips, mouth open in slacken shock, as if he had never thought he would have to actually face the man he had visited. He recovered quickly, however, grinning brightly once more. 'Enjolras, it is about time – '

Their eyes caught each other's as the sober man expressed his deep disdain. His look was agile in saying, 'Explain yourself to me, or leave my doorstep.'

'You would not begrudge a friend, would you?'

'I do not make friends with apes,' the man replied sourly, the acid frothing in his stomach once more.

There was a flash in Grantaire's grubby eyes of something very familiar to pain, but it had endured for very little. Enjolras hoped that meant something, that it had been unable to stand. Perhaps it meant, then, that the fierceness of the pain had been just as weak. However, the ferocity of that singular moment had been so purely honest as to make Enjolras falter in his proud insults. He wished to explain himself.

'A man must be able to walk, my friend,' he said softly, 'to have been descended from the _homo erectus._'

The silly grin returned. 'Did the god come down to gloat or will he let me in?'

Why not? Enjolras supposed. Of course there were many reasons 'why not,' but it seemed so much better to see the face in person than through his dreams. Less to speculate.

'Only for a few moments, Grantaire, and then I shall send you back to whatever bar you were previously drowning in.'

They made their way upstairs – Enjolras walking, Grantaire stumbling.

A look of extreme concentration furrowed above the latter's eyebrows. He sat seriously upon Enjolras bed (the owner shook his head, knowing he shouldn't have expected anymore than that Grantaire should take direct refuge on his most personal piece). He was surprisingly upright.

'What is it you want, then?' asked Enjolras, standing with his back turned away, pretending to be busy with the papers on his desk. The shuffling of the parchment was loud yet soft and it felt nice to fill the room with it. He stopped shuffling once two clearly wobbling piles had been compiled, turning round with a strong arch above his eye.

Grantaire had fallen back upon his bed, his lips parted once more. He snored quietly.

'Unbelievable,' huffed Enjolras, though it was nothing other than likely, and grabbed the drunkard by the arm, pulling him straight again. As the man awoke, there was the darkest shade of absinthe on his breath, very intense and rather revolting.

'How much have you drunk?'

Though his eyes were covered in black curls, Enjolras could still see him struggle to open his eyelids. He was smiling again, but this time there were no teeth, and there was something more humble about it. 'I am surprised you have not heard, my dear leader.' He flung his arms out, the bottle with it. Enjolras took it with surprising speed.

Grantaire looked with widened eyes to his empty palm, circling down and up to Enjolras' gaze, a little more sober than a moment ago.

'I don't drink it anymore.' He hiccupped and drawled out: 'I hibernate in the vat.'

'It is easy to smell.'

He guffawed, and then gulped rather violently. There was a pause.

'_Toilettes_,' he burst out.

'Excuse me?' Enjolras quickly stepped back. 'No.' He grabbed his forehead, jaw set. 'Grantaire, you are insufferable; you will not puke on my –'

'_Toilettes_!' Grantaire was up now, searching for a door.

'Down the hall, down the hall!' Enjolras opened the door and pointed far down. 'Run; I will get some water.'

Grantaire hurried out, looking ill and weary and desperate, as the blonde shook his head in disbelief. And this disbelief increased as his anger subsided so easily into fondness and worry. He found a pitcher and a glass, wondering when he had allowed himself to attend to filthy men as if an innkeeper or caretaker. Restless at the thought, Enjolras sat upon his desk, writing out numbers and wills.

His irritation broke down into worry. It had been a little over a half hour.

The door scraped the wooden floor and Grantaire reappeared, all the better save for a few wet curls and tired doe eyes. His cheeks were pink and ragged, and he looked suddenly sheepish in the conscious light.

He did not speak as Enjolras handed him his glass of water.

'I have never drunk so much,' he confessed, standing there awkwardly now, more a schoolboy than a cynic. Enjolras knew not which was worse. Suddenly antsy, Grantaire sat down upon the bed. It was silent for too long as Enjolras wrote empty words on his paper.

'You are going to die tomorrow,' Grantaire said at last.

Enjolras did not reply.

'Why do you not ask me to fight by you?'

The words were spat out, now – angry, as he turned to look at the man through the peripheral: 'I will not have a man fight by me who does not believe in my cause.'

He turned back to his papers, unfurling the stacks that were earlier formed into shanties of paper. 'Anyway, you will not hold.'

Grantaire grabbed at his collar, tugging at the tight wrap so it could finally release. 'Why do you not ask me' – the collar fell flaccid, and he made a sound of brief frustration at the final pull – 'to fight for you?'

A scoff. 'I am not a cause.'

The rough cushion of the bed groaned as Grantaire's weight was removed. There were three quick strides before Enjolras felt a hand upon his shoulder. He snapped around wildly. 'What are you –'

He stopped as Grantaire dropped one by one to his knees, pushing his forehead to Enjolras' shoulder. He grabbed solemnly to both sides of the white chair. Already, flecks of paint were furrowing into his nails. Enjolras looked down to the shaking hands, their stress and squareness, and how they grabbed on as if letting go meant being lost.

Grantaire spoke into the small crevice between him and Enjolras's neck, his chin quivering against the white. 'You have _caused_ me,' he began slowly. '...to go mad, Enjolras. You have made me put down a bottle just by thinking of you and you have made me drink more bottles than I had ever thought possible for even myself. You have caused me pain, but only because I have let myself be burnt so many times.' His voice shook, but his words were not so slanted and confused as before.

'What did I expect when I touched a god?'

Enjolras' no longer stared at the clutching hand, but at the back and body of a shaking man.

'You, the mighty Apollo, who has shone light on my little life.' He scoffed and continued: 'I, who do not believe in anything, have been sent my heavenly sign.'

'You are very drunk, indeed, Grantaire!' Enjolras made to get up, confused and wretched, unsure of the man before him. His neck was suddenly seized with a warmth which brought chills down his back. Enjolras had never known he had ever been so cold before then.

They touched foreheads and breathed into one another, Grantaire's breath heavy as the other, a statue, let out thin, cold wisps.

'Please.'

Enjolras was stiff beneath the touch, unyielding, and Grantaire let out a long, quaking breath.

'Please do not leave me.'

The room was barely lit. It was empty and cold and silent but there, as Enjolras gave a slow, growing smile, the room began to pulse, as if it were its own world and secret. A world that, somehow, the two together could believe in, beside and aside their differences, ever convoluted – but now with no divide.

Enjolras took his long, light hand and placed it to Grantaire's warm cheek – and leaning down, he pressed, from the pull in his chest to this man's own skin and scruff, a burning kiss. A transfer took place between their each and own lives as they pulled together and slowly drew out.

The eons ended when the brush of eyelids promised a new gaze and a new dawn, of the world that was being fought for with sure retribution. The hopes of years had been confirmed for only hours to live, a deep intake and exhale with no time for anything in between.

'It will not be long,' his breath assured, 'before I will see you where we may be equal.'

Their faces were separated far enough to see each other. Their eyes were clear, their gazes true. Grantaire looked up to him, as he often did, but his eyes were instantaneously shriveled and flooded, wide with realisation. He was sober, now, in his way - and decided.

They knew their fate and yet their gazes held no apologies or regrets.

'Lie down now, my friend. You will sleep here tonight.'


End file.
